


Until the End of the World

by jendavis



Series: Coming Right Along [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Episode: s05e04 The End, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-10
Updated: 2010-11-10
Packaged: 2017-10-13 03:58:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/132593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jendavis/pseuds/jendavis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shuffling onwards towards the end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Until the End of the World

**Author's Note:**

> Written for hc_bingo , prompt, "alcoholism," though it might be a little light on the comforting side of things.

Nobody's asked yet- why Dean decided to set up shop at Camp Chitaqua- but he's got an answer ready if they do. He'll tell them that he and Sam camped out there, once, between jobs.

It's not like Sam's around to argue, anyway.

Truth is, he'd never heard of it before one year and nineteen weeks ago, when Zachariah showed it to him as a warning.

He doesn't know if it's superstition or a sick sense of humor, or the fact that the rest of the world's falling down so fast that it's not worth trying to make the drive through the hills to the west, but this is where they are, now, and it's where they'll stay until the end..

Besides. As long as he's _here_ , he has a last chance to change the past. Maybe even the future. Maybe this time, three and a half years from now, he'll listen to himself. Maybe this time, it'll _take_.

\---

Cas staggers out into the sunlight, leaving the couple he'd spent the night with to the onset of their own hangovers.

The man- Jay or John or Jake or something, they'd just arrived yesterday- it turned out, he snored. _Horribly_. He's _still_ snoring, Cas can hear it over the wind ten feet away from the cabin.

It's still far too early to be awake.

He's trying to decide between Chuck's couch- the one that's only sometimes known as _their_ couch- and breakfast. More importantly, _coffee_.

Heading towards the kitchen, though, his path veers slightly towards visitor's center, and he catches sight of Maria. She's stepping carefully backwards down the steps, waving and smiling wide, and she looks too happy for this awful time of morning, but it's happiness nonetheless, and even the sunlight shines a little more brightly, as if following her lead.

He kind of hates Maria right now.

Cas waits until she's out of sight before swinging across the yard and up to the doorway.

Inside, it still smells like her, but Chuck's already opening the windows. It's almost like he'd known Cas was coming, but he hasn't been able to see the future for more than two years, now.

He does, however, regard him coolly for a moment as his eyes sweep down to read last nights excess on his wrinkled clothing, and Cas does the same to him. One of these days, Cas will figure out what, exactly, this repeated contest means, how the points are spread, and maybe, how they're going to declare the winner and be _done_ with it, already, but not today.

Completing his assessment with a smirk, Chuck nods at the couch. "It's yours if you want it. I'm on breakfast detail."

Cas nods, grateful, and not long after, the door's swinging closed behind Chuck.

The couch was really all he wanted, anyway. He listens to the sounds of people waking up, quiet conversation, a screen door closing across the yard, and he sleeps.

\---

It's not like Dean has all that many friends left. Bobby died last summer, Sam's dead in every way that counts, and it's pretty much down to Cas and Chuck, now, even if he barely knows them any more.

Cas is falling, Dean's known it for a while. What _is_ fucked up is the fact that Dean has to hear the details from Chuck, of all people Chuck, who isn't much of a prophet any more, either, by the fucking way.

But Dean's not much of- fuck. _Anything_ , anymore, so at least they're all well matched.

And it's awful every time Chuck remembers to clue him in on some new depressing detail- that they're going to need another shotgun because Cas can't bind demons anymore, or that there's one more mouth to feed because he needs to eat, now.

Once upon a time, Castiel dragged Dean's ass out of hell so he could save the world. He rebelled against heaven, and it's only cost him everything.

Screw it, though. Might've been nice just to get it over with, and that's not the point, anyway.  
See, Castiel and him, they were tight, once, before they got to the camp, and all told, by that point, Dean had probably spent less than twenty four hours in the guy's presence., but it had seemed like they'd known each other forever, there, for a while.

And it's kind of funny, because right now? Cas is there every day, and it's like Dean doesn't know him at _all_. Hears most of it from Chuck, when he's in one of his communicative moods, when he happens to remember something that Cas had mentioned. Usually, the news is two weeks old before Chuck passes it along- it never comes before, any more, because either the signal out here is crap, or God's lost Chuck's number for good. And Cas doesn't tell Dean anything.

Thing is, Dean's stopped trying to make him.

He tells himself it's because of the thirty-two people that he's trying to keep living until tomorrow.

Or that he doesn’t have the time to deal with Chuck's rampant bipolar swings any more than he does Cas's steadier downward spiral.

Or that three's a crowd, and he can't imagine what's it's like for to feel one's grace dwindling slowly and steadily away, for to have God's voice go silent.

Or that he knows how this is all going to end, anyway. A few years from now is going to cross with a few years back, and if Dean's going to have any hope at all of talking himself out of the path he'd taken, he's going to have to use Cas and Chuck as cautionary tales, and he's going to have to use them as cannon fodder. He hates himself for it, but he's going to need the two of them as fucked up as they can possibly be.

But really, there's only so much facing two of the people he's failed most in the world that he can handle on a daily basis. Most of the time, he's just relieved that they're still alive, that they haven't bailed on him yet. And sometimes, when there's ten minutes between the last crisis and the next, he honestly tries to connect.

Sometimes, though, he just needs to know if they've got enough ammunition for the next week.

\---

It's not the first time Dean's seen Cas this shitfaced out of his skull, but it is the first time he's seen it this early in the day. It's barely nine in the morning, and Cas is already slumped against the wall, his legs splayed out on the floor as Chuck steps around him with practiced ease.

Dean crouches next to him, but it takes Cas a minute to realize he's there.

He spreads his palms, frowning. "What the _hell_ are you doing, Cas?"

There's something that crosses his face, but whatever he's about to say, he changes his mind. "I don't know," he eventually replies, before his head rolls back. He's squinting at the ceiling like he's having a hard time getting a fix on it. "But I'm going to have to try something else. This isn't working."

Dean has no idea how Cas defines _working_ , any more, and fares no better when he turns to Chuck.

Chuck's on one of his manic upswings, looks like he's been switched on for three days straight- all nervous energy and jittery hands. "Why's he doing this?"

"The usual reasons, I guess," Chuck shrugs, blinking as he considers the nearly empty shelves, and changes the subject. "You know, we're going to need to source out some new salt sources, _real_ soon."

\---

There's a pounding on his door that Chuck doesn't want to answer, because he already knows what's on the other side, and he's too tired to spend another night staring at the only evidence that what he remembers being isn't an illusion, that he's not completely insane. Because if angels were real, then God was probably real, and if that were true, he really _had_ spoken, at some point. Even if he's quiet, now.

But it's hard to will himself up off the couch to answer the door, because standing on the porch, the evidence is more fucked up and hurting than he is. It's not like Cas doesn't have his reasons.

Chuck lost his visions and headaches. Cas went through the equivalent of a man devolving into a mouse, and remembers every moment of it. Chuck can't blame him for wanting to forget.

Besides. This thing they've got, it's probably not permanent, and it's by no means regular, but nothing much is, these days. It's just another thing waiting to fall apart. It's also the only easy thing either of them have going, any more.

So Chuck keeps an extra bottle or two on hand, because he knows that he's Cas's evidence, too, and if Cas has any hope of pushing this shit out of his head for more than ten minutes at a time, he's going to need all the help he can get.

Cas steps inside and surveys the room, looking surprisingly more together than he's seemed in weeks, and Chuck hadn't been ready for that, not at all.

\---

"Our fearless leader has decreed that the raid is a go," Cas scowls as he examines Chuck's drawn face, his lack of response. He's just standing there like his soul's gone missing. "He wants to know if you're available to assist." Still no response. "We leave in the morning."

Chuck shrugs. He hears what Cas is saying, he just doesn't care, and he's been like this for three days, now.

And Cas has done what he can- he's taken his watch shifts, he's completed the inventory and rotated the food stocks, he's done everything that he knows to do, and apparently all that's left is the kind of task that he's still, even after all this time, amazingly ill-suited for.

But at least he knows he sucks.

"Are you alright?"

"It's quiet," Chuck says, scratching his head. "I mean, it's always quiet, now, but. I'm fine." His eyes actually move in Cas's general direction, probably for the first time in a week, and he shakes himself. He scowls at Cas's hand, but there's no telling what he sees there. "Uh, what did you need?"

Cas flexes his fingers, reminding himself that they're empty, that there's nothing that they're supposed to be carrying, nothing that has to be done. He's just here.

"Just. To tell you about tomorrow."

"Yeah, okay," Chuck glances over to the chest where he keeps the bottles, and raises an eyebrow. Even Cas can see that his heart's not in it, but he's making an effort. "You, ah. Staying tonight? I'm not saying I'm the best company right now, but…"

"I'll stay," Cas decides, and his fingers twitch in Chuck's direction, masking the movement by picking up the nearest bottle. By the time they one's done, maybe he can let them try again.

In the meantime, they sit on the couch and he tries to tell Chuck stories that don't mean anything, that won't remind him of what's no longer in his head. It's hard. Winds up telling him about the displays at the Chicago World's Fair, inane memories and trivia, because he doesn't know what else to talk about. But half the time, Chuck doesn't even to be listening.

When Chuck finishes the first bottle and leans across him to reach for the second, his shoulder presses into Cas's side and stays there until Cas to make room, has to resettle his hand on Chuck's back, and they drink until the sun comes up.

It seems a better solution than the words had been.

\---

Maybe, Dean thinks, it's the fact that Chuck- for the most part, at least- has been the one to keep on top of the food supply, the one who lets everyone know when they're going to need to start looking for a new salt supply, but the Camp loves him. Despite the weeks he spends in sullen drunken silence.

They come and go, they've got this on-again-off again thing that Dean doesn't really understand, but what Dean knows for sure is that it's easier on everyone if, when the downswing comes, Chuck's orbit is converging with Cas's.

When it's not, though, when they're in one of their phases where Cas is burying himself in women and Chuck is burying himself silently in _lists_ and _work_ and seeing nothing beyond the shelves that line the cellar, the mess radiates out through the camp until everyone's on edge for days. Picking sides, like they're preparing for some sort of war on their behalf, like they think it'll amount to anything.

The irony isn't lost on Dean. Not even a bit.

\---

  
Risa's barely been at the camp for three months now, but that doesn't matter. She'd decided to dislike Cas within ten minutes of arriving, and honestly, it doesn't look like having to help him out of the truck is changing her opinion of him. Any minute now, Chuck's going to have to step in and run damage control again.

"He was fucked up when we went _out_ , she's growling at Dean, who's coming forward to shove his shoulder underneath Cas's. "He could've gotten us all _killed_."

"Yeah, well, he _didn't_ ," Dean grumbles back, stumbling under the shifting weight. "Mia and Pete were down before we were anywhere _near_ their position, okay, so just _chill_." Scanning the yard, he finally sees Chuck coming towards them. "I'm putting him in the visitor's center. You don't like it, too freakin' bad."

"That's cool," Chuck says, his brow furrowing as he falls into step next to them. "What happened?"

"Tried to stop himself from falling down a flight of stairs. Would've been better if he'd just fallen," Dean replies, and Cas barks out a laugh that turns into a pained gasp. "He broke his foot."

Chuck steps ahead to get the door open so they can pass though, and watches Dean maneuver him onto the couch. It's not until Dean steps aside that he can see Cas's face.

His eyes are squeezed tightly shut, and he's trying to curl into himself, but it's clear his foot's in too much pain.

"This isn't good."

"No. No it's _not_ ," Dean agrees, but he actually looks more worried than angry, now that they've left the rest of the away team outside and it's just the three of them there. He rolls his neck. "Okay, look. Vicki's coming over with the painkillers, but. I need to know, how are our reserves holding out?"

"Okay for now. We got nineteen bottles of Vicodin in the last raid, so…"

"Okay, well. Don't let him take all of them, but-" he flounders, gesturing towards Cas, and it's actually kind of a relief, seeing the concern on his face. It hasn't been there for a while, probably not since Cas overdosed back in March. "I know what I said, but. Make sure he gets what he needs, okay?"

\---

It seems to take an awfully long while for the painkillers to start working, and once Vicki sets in on doing what she can for his foot, Cas passes out, anyway.

He's still sweating, it looks like, but Vicki's pretty sure it's form the exertion, not infection. Still, though, someone's got to keep watch, make sure he doesn't overdose again.

It seems like a punishment, and hell, knowing Dean, it's meant as one. His parting words had been, "Chuck, man. Don't get so fucked up that you can't tell when _he's_ too fucked up, okay?"

Chuck numbs the irritation of it all with a little bit of whiskey- but only a very little bit. They're down to the last five bottles, now, and contrary to popular belief, he _does_ know how to pace himself.

Still, though. Chuck could probably polish them off, unassisted, inside of a week, if he tried. But they're already having to strike out further on their supply runs. They're running out of a lot more than this.

There's not much to do besides pore over the paltry library they've managed to assemble. A few dog-eared novels, an entire shelf full of mixed religion, and twelve feet of do-it-yourself manuals.

It's in one of these last that he finds the instructions on making a still.

\---

It's two arguments with Dean later that Chuck manages to get any headway, and he's pretty sure it's only Risa's support for the idea that swings the vote.

"Look. We have a lot of injuries. There's at least three different kinds we need for protection, and sources are growing scarcer by the day. And, fuck it. With how the world looks like these days, the Booze Brothers aren't the only ones that could use a drink."

And so it begins.

Chuck compiles lists, tells people what to look for, what to bring home. It will take a while to stockpile the necessary materials, but between the onset of Cas's fevered infection, and the repeating and ongoing attempts to derail the resulting self-euthanization attempts, it's probably just as well.

By the third week, though, they've managed to scrounge up enough material to begin the construction, and the fever is finally down enough that Vicki's finally agreed to let Cas out onto the lounger outside.

And to be honest, micromanaging the project seems to be doing Cas more good than anything else, anyway.

"I _was_ there when the first one was _built_ , you know," Cas is grumbling, managing to look imperious regardless of the flowered blanket he's got over his lap.

"You serious?" Dean calls back, and Chuck snorts, looks back down at his measurements. He's heard this all before. "I wouldn't think that's the angels' style, is all I'm saying. Can't see God sitting on high and deciding to allow the human race to become a bunch of drunken ingrates."

"He didn't just _let_ it happen, Dean. It was divine _inspiration_. Think about it. Why else would anybody go through the effort of taking precious foodstuffs and deliberately letting them _rot_."

Chuck doesn't know if Cas is full of shit or not, but he knows what he's talking about. He's already successfully adjusted the valves leading into the main tank, and saved them days worth of hassle on the condenser mounting.

And even if he is making it all up as he goes along, well. It's the first thing, beyond the painkillers, that's caught his attention in _weeks_ , now.

After it's done, though, there's nothing else to distract him.

\---

In four days, Dean's going to find himself out in the yard, drag himself inside, and this time, maybe make himself listen. Make himself say _yes_. But he's not going to get _along_ with himself.

He's not entirely sure how it's going to work, or _if_ it's going to work. It didn't the first time, after all, and the second's not even _close_ to being in the bag. Just because Dean knows, now, exactly where he could've routed history from going down this road, it doesn’t mean that something else won't come along to block off the exit.

He's been driving ever since, waiting for the gas to just run the hell out. Waiting for a jackass of an angel to send his past self five years forward, so he can try and talk himself out of it, again.

It's fucked up, Dean thinks, knowing the future in advance. Keeps meaning to bring it up to Chuck, but the prophet's in retirement, and the fact that he's probably going to die just so Dean can prove a point to his old self- one that probably won't even take- quashes the urge.

Frankly, it's anybody's guess if Chuck's even talking, this week.

\---

The women filter out, off towards the showers, and Dean's standing behind him, calling him a hippie, but he's probably just jealous that the orgies weren't _his_ idea.

When Cas turns to tell him as much, though, his breath is knocked out of him by the weight of five years, lived all at once.

His first coherent thought is that the pot he'd smoked earlier was stronger than he'd thought it would be. His second is that it's not nearly strong enough.

Because it's Dean, clearer than Cas or even Dean himself can remember, and the only thing that could do that is another angel.

Or, well. An _angel_. The _another_ has been irrelevant for years, now.

\---

Part of his mind understands what's going on, but the rest of it doesn't have a clue. If it weren't for the dumbfounded stares of the others, Cas would probably be changing his mind, deciding again, that he's hallucinating.

After Dean takes Dean inside, Cas needs a while to clear his head. He wanders the camp for a while, waving off the women coming back from the showers, their hair still wet and their eyes confused, disappointed. He can't think about them right now.

He's never had much to compare it to, but he's known since the start that life wasn't supposed to be the steady downward slide they'd all been living. Stumbling from one losing fight to the next, always talking so quietly as if trying to stave off the first rumblings of an avalanche.

It never changes. It hasn't in years, now. The few stark moments of absolute terror aren't so few as to be unexpected, and they never change anything.

This, though, feels different. _Is_ different.

Dean's been thrust roughly into the center of their frozen lives, and the shockwaves are already radiating out, and any moment now, it's all going to come tumbling down, one way or the other.

It feels like superstition, the idea that there might be a _reason_ for it, but beyond that, he has no idea how he feels about it- how he's _supposed_ to feel about it.

But Chuck might.

Risa's storming out of the visitor's center, frowning as she stalks down the wooden steps. It worsens when she finds him standing there, and she reels on him, waving towards the building.

"What did you give him _this_ time?"

"What? I-" Cas stepped back, out of range of Risa's overprotective streak.

"It's Chuck. He collapsed, just a while ago. I was talking to him and Dean and then," she shrugs, her glare hardening once again. "I had to drag him inside by myself, since everyone else in this damned place is apparently _completely fucking useless_." She snorts, shaking her head as if she were encountering some new, conflicting notion, as if she's surprised. "So. What did you _give_ him, Cas?"

The fact that he has to think about it _clearly_ isn't winning him any points with her. Chuck had helped him polish off that bottle of rotgut, but that had been yesterday, it wouldn't have-

"What the _fuck_?"

He glances up to catch Risa staring over his shoulder, startled and disbelieving for real this time, and already, she's staring past him, towards Dean's cabin. Through the window, she sees two of them. "Seriously, are you _seeing_ this?" she asks, but doesn't glance back for confirmation.

"Yes. Um. It's a pretty messed up situation," he tries. She's not listening.

\---

The curtains are drawn and the room is dark. Chuck is on the couch, his arms wrapped around his head, his body curled tight. He doesn't notice Cas approaching.

"What's wrong?"

Chuck looks up and smirks, but it's wild around the edges, a little bitter. "It's going to be okay. Forgotten what it feels like."

Cas sinks into the couch, but he stops himself, suddenly stiff and tense, that earlier feeling of _anticipation_ crashing over him again. "This. From before. You think it's a vision?"

"Yeah."

Heartbeats are funny things, the way they pound everything else out of existence. He's about to ask, but Chuck's shaking his head.

"Bottom drawer on the right. Key's in the top drawer. Grab the box, would you?"

Cas does as he's told. After finding the right key, he's sliding it open to reveal a wooden case, which he lifts carefully. There's nothing inscribed on the wood to reveal what lies within, no demonic or Enochian script. He's surprised to see Chuck waving his hands. "It's _fine_. Open it."

Inside the box, nestled in shredded newspaper, was a bottle of absinthe. From the Czech Republic, by the looks of it, and it goes into Chuck's outstretched hand.

Chuck's squinting, but he attempts a grin as he opens the bottle. "Don't have any sugar, but…been saving this a long time."

Wincing as he swallows, he passes it to Cas. The liquor burns in his throat, but he drinks again, hands it back over. This, he understands now. It's desperation, it Chuck fooling himself, finally cracking after all this time. Cas gives it a few moments before speaking.

"God followed hope out of town years ago. How do you know he's talking to you now?"

Chuck shakes his head, opens one eye to look at him. "You talk like they're not two words for the same thing, you know that?"

Rolling his eyes, Cas swivels his head to glare at him, but he's got no idea at all what he's supposed to say. _If they really are one and the same, why are you looking so hopeless?  
_  
Chuck's hurting, that much is obvious, but he's laboring under a delusion that's painful to watch, only Cas doesn't know if it's sympathy he's feeling, or jealousy.

Instead of speaking, he drinks when the bottle's passed back.  The absinthe's done a fair amount of work already, he's numb enough not to feel it go down, and it's becoming a languid, peaceful inebriation. He could get used to it, but it's not helping anything make sense.

Things make a lot less sense- or maybe too much, he doesn't even _know_ any more- and Chuck's next words don't help one way or the other.

"Dean and Dean are working on a plan."

Because Cas hasn't gotten around to mentioning Past Dean's arrival yet, and he doesn't know how Chuck knows, and-

"Knock knock," Chuck mutters, just as there's a pounding at the door. It's Present Dean, standing in the entryway like a stranger, and Cas is struck, realizing how true that's been for months, now. Maybe years.

"Mission tonight. Briefing in twenty."

\---

Cas changes his clothes, stumbling a bit as he pulls his boots on, and it's a relief when he leaves, swaying through the door.

 _In another few hours, this on-again, off-again thing they've been dancing around for years is going to come to an end_.

The halo of light was blinding, slicing into his brain, and worse, it was just the late afternoon sun, pouring in around him.

 _The mission is a setup_.

If he doesn't put the bottle down, soon, his eyes are going to be swimming by the time he makes it over to the armory.

 _Everyone's going to die_.

They're going to need at least four more magazines readied, and if the first aid kits aren't stocked, they're going to know something's wrong.

 _Risa goes down under two Croats and Cas is trying to reach for her, he doesn't see the demon coming at him from the side, there's too much blood pouring from the gash in his brow and he's not strong enough, can't get his gun up in time but he fires anyway-_

If he tells them what's coming, he's only sending them in scared, wary. It won't change anything, just makes him feel like a co-conspirator in the meantime.

 _Past Dean watches his future self die, and Lucifer smiles at him with Sam's face_.

Dean knows this is coming, and he's known it for years.

 _It's the best chance they've got_.

He shouldn't take another drink. He drinks anyway.

\---

It's Dean's plan, and that's the only reason he's going along with it. That's what Cas tells himself, even if the Dean that sways him hasn't existed for years. Still, though. _Insouciant_ isn't strong enough, and neither is _reckless_. Completely fucking _suicidal_ , though, that sounds about right.

Besides. He's already fallen this far for Dean's fight. Might as well go all the way.

\---

Chuck's gone when Cas gets back, but he can hear him down in the storage room, rummaging around. Once he makes it down the stairs he sees that he's already at work, loading equipment and medical supplies into bags, checking things off his clipboard and humming to himself.

The bottle is still close to hand, and it's a little confusing and a lot terrifying. Because Chuck _knows_ something, at least he thinks he does, and Cas isn't sure which prospect he likes least, any more. Having to tell him that he's wrong, or having to hear that he's right.

Because apparently God and hope are the same thing, but Cas really isn't feeling the love.

Chuck isn't either, it turns out. His eyes are red, rough around the edges when he finally notices Cas standing there.

"You've heard about the mission?"

"Before you did," Chuck shrugs, looks down at his clipboard again. "It's a good one, though. A good plan."

"How's it going to go down?"

"I… I _really, seriously_ don't want to tell you."

Cas sighs, frustrated and reluctant. "If it's a true vision, knowing what's coming won't change the outcome. If it isn't, then it might serve to warn us, at least."

"It's a true vision," Chuck shoves another bundle of bandages into the duffel. "I haven't felt this shitty in years. Anyway. How long before you ship out?"

"Three hours. We're leaving at midnight."

Chuck doesn't say anything, and for a moment, he starts to believe that he won't have to, that Cas's words summed everything up well enough.

But this isn't their story. That's not how it goes.

He pulls the absinthe down off the shelf and thumbs it open, takes a drink before passing it over. Cas seems more interested in trying to read his mind, but he hasn't been able to do that for years, now. He does, however, take a long pull from the bottle, though his unflinching eyes never leave Chuck's.

Chuck's going to outlive Cas. Not by long- a few weeks, tops- but still.

It's not right.

He's not usually the one who moves first, but Cas lets him close in on him, push him into the empty corner of the storeroom and hold him there. Chuck has him by his shoulders at first, and then by his hips.

"I promise it's a good plan," Chuck says, kissing his forehead. "And that it's going to work."

"Who's going to die? Dean?"

"Dean's not."

"Which one?"

" _Our_ Dean," he admits, because anything more is a truth too harsh to be spoken aloud.

Cas digs his fingers into Chuck's biceps, though whether it's acknowledgement, or agreement, Chuck doesn't know. It's not surprise, though. He's been facing down his mortality ever since he got here, and now he's looking back at Chuck and trying to figure out what sort of expression he's supposed to be wearing now that he knows it's coming.

None of them appear to fit, but Cas must have a sense of Chuck's going to say next, because he's pulling him closer, letting him speak the words- _the Word_ into his hair, into the space behind him.

"When you get out there, you're going to die. Nothing you can do will change it. And I'm sorry, but you have to let it happen."

"Zachariah sent Dean into the future to convince him to prevent it. This. From happening," Cas explains, which at least saves Chuck the effort.

"Yes. And hopefully-"

Cas shakes his head, makes a shushing sound, but it takes him a moment to find his words, and he doesn't pull away. Chuck still can't see his face.

"I'll give the last of what I have in the fight. That was always the plan, but. Can we not-" he breaks off, and Chuck can feel what's probably a tight grin against the side of his neck. "Did your vision tell you what I'm supposed to say, here?"

Chuck snorts. They're going to be unwritten, soon. Whatever words they use in the meantime won't matter for very long. Easing back a bit, he tries to smile, wants to look Cas in the eye, but can't, knowing how wrecked he must look.

He can only get the words out because he's drunk. "Don't ever change," he starts, and he's about to add, _not that there's enough time for it to matter_ , but he catches himself. "Just don't change."

Once he's said it, he's able to open his eyes and immediately wishes that he hadn't, because as fucked up as he is right now, the wild stare that's not quite meeting his own is a thousand times worse.

"Too late, I think," Cas blinks, then curls a hand into Chuck's hair, and kisses the side of his mouth before catching his lips. There's only a moment in between the two, a short enough span that Chuck's not sure how or if the words are actually voiced, but he hears _I wasn't afraid to die, before_.

And there's got to be a word out there that can encapsulate what it means to feel the heart's every chamber breaking, but it's not something that can be pronounced, even heard, it has to be pushed directly against another's mouth, hard enough that none of it can escape, get lost in the translation.

Soon, he'll have to go upstairs, make sure the trucks are loaded before seeing them all off for the last time.

Right now, though, he grabs onto to the only one he'll miss.

\---

Dean's past self is in going over the route maps with Risa, and there's a little while yet before they've got to hit the road. It's just enough time to do something about the niggling feeling in the back of his head that's been growing for weeks.

He can't tell anyone goodbye, not without tipping his hand, but he can try one last time to…connect. Talk. Something.

The visitor's center is empty, and neither Chuck nor Cas are eating with the others, but maybe they're already getting the supplies together.

When he gets around to the storerooms, there's a light coming through the basement window, and he catches sight of them through a gap in the curtains, and his feet freeze into the ground.

They're kissing, manic. Even from here, he can see the way they shake when they pull apart enough to breathe. They're clutching at each other like they're trying to crawl into each other's skin, and when they drag each other to the floor, Chuck's foot kicks an open bottle sitting on a low shelf. The contents arc against the wall and the shelves behind them.

Either they know that the stains on the wall or puddles on the floor don't matter anymore, or they're too drunk to notice.

But it looks an awful lot like they're saying goodbye.


End file.
